MISSING IN ACTION
by Wynsom
Summary: John Watson is missing during an Underground derailment. With both a very pregnant Mary and Sherlock fearing for his safety, Sherlock goes to the scene to find his friend and grapples with the difficulties of human nature—mostly his own. (As always, your reviews are most welcomed.)
1. Chapter 1

_Outside the Yellow Tape_

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"Is John with you?"

Sherlock turned down the flame on his Bunsen burner and tilted his neck to hold the mobile. "Mary?" Leaving his goggles in place, he examined the results of his ongoing experiment.

"…I'm, I'm looking for…John." The desperate worry she tried to conceal prompted Sherlock to shut off the burner and shove the safety glasses onto his head.

Receiving a call—not just a text—from Mary was not out of the ordinary, but her trembly voice was.

"Are you all right? What's wrong?" Quickly, the detective sifted through the current status of Mrs. Watson's condition as last reported by John. "bed rest...any day now." The proud father and doctor, all smiles and eyes twinkling, could not have been more hopeful and anxious. Sherlock had the same mixed emotions, but he wouldn't let on.

"Oh, no! It's not me. I'm fine, well mostly except I've been ordered to stay off my feet…." Mary dismissed. "Anyway. Nothing, yet."

_Right! So, where's John? Was he supposed to be with me today?_ The consulting detective reviewed his mental checklist for the day. Whilst he often merged John's actual presence with the constant one in his mind, he was certain they had not planned to meet, nor was his partner off on an investigative errand. It was part of an unspoken agreement among the three of them. As the due date drew closer, the investigative team of Holmes and Watson (_mostly _Watson) had scaled back on cases. Lately, the "deplorable" conditions of London crime scenes had yielded mostly 3s and 4s, not requiring either of them to leave the flat—avoiding dangerous situations—and allowing them to be on call for Mary and Baby Watson _["Shirley," he called her secretly or BSW for short]_. Anticipating childbirth had actually become exciting, Sherlock discovered to his surprise.

Playing back his memory of recent events, Sherlock vividly saw the back of John's head as he headed out, heard his parting words tossed over his shoulder: "Okay, right then," and remembered seeing yesterday's newspaper, the headline in plain view, draped over the armchair. Looking over now, it was still there, where John left it yesterday.

"Did he plan on coming here?" The detective stepped away from his lab equipment on the kitchen table, tossed the perishable materials into the refrigerator for preservation, shrugged off his tan lab coat, and rummaged for cleaner socks.

"Actually, no. This afternoon, he was supposed to be picking up…oh, well…that's not important. It's …I'm worried. Have you seen the telly? Some breaking news is giving me a bad feeling." Mary's voice caught. "They think it's due to a power surge, but there's been an explosion or a fire… a derailment, and massive train disruption… Metronet says this occurred in the London tube station…many injuries…some fatalities feared…It's on the telly!"

"hmmmm… been caught up in experiments…" Among her many talents, Mary's intuition had been one Sherlock most admired. With a sinking feeling he already knew what she was about to say. He slipped into shoes and knotted his scarf.

"I'm, I'm afraid…he was there…I can't ring him up…can't text. His mobile's not working…If Doctor's orders didn't have me on bed rest, I'd be there myself. Still might go... "

"No! Take care of your baby. I'll go take care of John for you, but tell me _where_, exactly…"

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Sirens wailed past. Rescue and recovery were underway.

With his collar up, scarf wrapped tight—but hatless, Sherlock braced himself against the wintry afternoon chill that did not dissuade an enormous crowd from collecting near the scene. When the consulting detective arrived, nearly a hundred passengers, some with soot-blackened faces, some looking dazed, others merely frightened, were being evacuated from the tube station and assembled for first aid.

Calculating six carriages per train, each with a seating capacity of 152 passengers, totaling 912 on board, Sherlock noted that many more people were still in the Underground depending on how many trains were affected.

A large area surrounding the Underground entrance had been cordoned off by yellow police tape to create triage stations for those in immediate or urgent need. Police and firefighter vehicles along with ambulances, had parked in a strategic herringbone pattern to prevent penetration from unofficial vehicles. CTV Reporters on the scene mingled among the onlookers and concerned citizens searching for sound bites.

Although the consulting detective was tall, he stood on tiptoes to peer over the heads of the throng, looking out for Lestrade or any familiar MET official who might give him special clearance.

Instead, his marginal vantage point showed him the grim view of recovered bodies laid in orderly rows a distance away on the cold street. Only shoes, socks, or bare feet were sticking out from the blankets. At quick glance, Sherlock counted seven men's feet, three women's feet, and two smaller bundles completely covered, no feet showing. The shock of the children victims struck him hard and he looked away. _BSW!_

Sherlock checked his mobile: no texts, no messages from friends nor his network. Normally, without accurate information or the confirmation of any details, the consulting detective wouldn't have thought to call Mary, but something he had learned from John—_"one word was all I needed_"—changed his mind.

"Mary! Here now. Has John called? No? Okay. Don't have much information yet …"

It was hard to hear her. Either the nearby noise was too loud or her voice was strained from crying. He presumed to answer with, "Don't worry. I promise you. I _will_ find him."

"…I know you will, Sherlock." At that moment, she clearly heaved a sob. "If anyone can…." Her faith in him, like John's, was humbling. Ending the call, Sherlock could only hope "alive and well" would be how he would find his best friend…her husband…_BSW's_ Dad.

The humbled detective thumbed a quick text to Lestrade and Mycroft: _JW missing. At derailment site. Need information.__ SH._ He paused thoughtfully, then, reluctantly forwarded the same message to Molly Hooper. The only one he did not want to hear back from was Molly, but the lack of an immediate reply from the other two tested his patience. _Give them some time, John would say. _It only took a few moments for Molly to reply with: _Don't Worry _ followed by a smiling emoticon. Sherlock rolled his eyes in amusement. She knew how much he loathed the ridiculous codification of facial expressions. Obviously, she was attempting to distract him from worry.

However, worry surrounded him. Listening to the shouts and murmurs from the crowd—endless questions and comments in chaotic spurts—the consulting detective attempted to gather empirical data through their emotionally charged chatter.

_"__How did this happen?"_

_"__On the telly, they saying it could be as many as four trains involved…"_

_"__Oh My God!"_

_ "__Do you see my daughter? Tracy, do you see her? She's not picking up her mobile"_

_"__There's Bret! I see Bret! He's okay! BRET! BRET! Over here!"_

_ "__Lightning. They say it was a lightning strike…" _

_"__Not in winter!"_

_"__Too cold, too cold out."_

_"__Bet it's a terrorist thing!"_

_"__Look at them. Who is responsible here? This is an outrage!"_

_"__SHUT UP! Can't 'ear what the constable's saying?"_

_"__Move. Must get through! My wife's there…Help? Help me? Let me by!"_

The intense cacophony was overstimulating, however. Sherlock needed to ground his sharpened senses from excessive sentiment with a different focus to help him differentiate the irrelevant fretting from the important facts.

Looking across the way, his eyes were drawn to medical personnel from the nearby surgery; some in scrubs, standing ready on the street, apparently waiting to be called in as volunteers to assist. Immediately he thought of John._ He'd be one of the first to volunteer._

Maneuvering through the pulsing crowd, Sherlock approached the doctors and nurses with intentions to overhear, if not to engage them, for more information about the crisis. Tapping the shoulder of a young woman doctor for attention, Sherlock leaned closer. "What do you know?" His baritone was barely loud enough to be heard over the noise of the emergency vehicles on site and the blended yowl of the distressed.

"No one knows yet what caused the derailment, but there are definitely two trains incapacitated with loads of passengers needing to be evacuated through the tube," she shouted her reply. The man beside her added, "casualties are coming in. Helpful passengers have been assisting rescue operations, but still unsure of how many and what kind of injuries we will be dealing with. Looked bad at first, some burn victims, but most coming out right now seem ambulatory." Even as they finished speaking, they were summoned to a triage station and sprinted away, leaving the consulting detective at the kerb.

An RN, who had just broken off a conversation with a MET officer, caught Sherlock's eye. Perhaps his perplexed face compelled her to relay the information. "Apparently, in one of the trains, there are three derailed carriages full of passengers at the Underground derailment site, several passengers are critical, and they can't be moved out until the equipment can be moved, and rescue can get past the blockage. I'm told there are medical people staying with them."

Nodding his thanks to her, Sherlock felt helpless. He had to resign himself to only one role—that of an observer— and wait as the truth unfolded. Patience was hardly his best attribute but he managed to wait the full hour after he sent his text to receive a response from Lestrade: _Working on it._

Moments later, Mycroft called. "Well, the good news is they ruled out a terrorist act."

"What about casualties?"

"In that area, unfortunately, you know as much as I. The MET and Metronet are coordinating rescue and recovery activities and that will take time. One derailment, but two trains are immovable in the tube. That's almost two thousand people who have to "climb" back out. Some are elderly, some unfit for unusually rigorous activity, and then there are safety issues with the power shut off. Most people find total darkness unsettling."

"I need access!"

"And what would you do? Deduce your way to find the cause of the power surge? I doubt their experts would tolerate your meddling. Find John, then? Once the blocked tube is opened and the engineers can ensure that no structural damage would jeopardize evacuation, those trapped passengers will be pouring out. John Watson will probably be one of them."

_Were that possible?_ Sherlock kept silent as he let his brother ramble. He wasn't sure if this was Mycroft's way of giving him hope.

"Excepting _your friend_, I find most ordinary people are easily frightened by change in their daily routine. Now imagine those same poor souls thrown into a situation that is unexpected and startling. How, Sherlock, do you expect to handle that emotional tidal wave when it rises to the surface? My advice to you, dear brother, is stand back. Or better, go back to your flat as fast as you can, let the experts handle this crisis, and John will contact you when he surfaces."

"You underestimate my tolerance, as usual. Rather, I need clearance to stay. Don't want to be shooed off site like one of the curious spectators. Just permission to remain on site, to gather information, until I am satisfied…"

"Satisfied? We all know that's not possible for you."

Rather than perpetuate the volley of verbal taunts, Sherlock held his tongue.

"Tsk, tsk. What have we here? Someone employing restraint! Hmmm, Sherlock, perhaps you _can _hold your own when the emotional floodgates burst." His brother marveled, although light sarcasm laced his words. "Fine, then. You'll get your access, but _Stay_ out of trouble!" An intake of breath informed Sherlock that Mycroft hadn't finished. "One more thing." The elder Holmes' tone dropped to a serious level. "Don't let sentiment warp your sense of probability. So far, the ratio of fatalities to passengers seems to be relatively low. Do the calculations and focus on probability not possibility!"

The call ended before Sherlock could reply to the offered encouragement.

As the afternoon sun sank, the crisis also seemed to be passing its zenith. Within three hours, the mass exodus from the Underground slowed to an occasional surge, then ultimately a trickle of stragglers that included some Metronet workers in reflective vests, and MET personnel on the investigation.

However, there was still no sign of John. The ratio of probability to possibility was becoming problematic.

Immense worry and absolute dread about the _possibility_ of losing his friend bled through his thoughts, immobilizing him. Amid the clamor of humanity in a crisis, the consulting detective found himself more isolated, unattached, and disconnected than ever before. Mycroft's warning "…_hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage,"_ and his own words _"__All emotions, and particularly love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things," _pronounced publicly at John and Mary's wedding so many months ago, were motivating him to retreat and withdraw away from this impossible suffering.

But he couldn't leave. He wouldn't leave if John were here. He couldn't let Mary down. Hadn't he vowed to do whatever it takes for _all three_ of them?

Because he—_loved_ them!

It was _love_, and not _cold reason_, which allowed him to _stand opposed_ to despair _above all things_. And stand he would, along with all the worried people around him, until he found John. And finally he realized that by sharing in this clamor of humanity, he was not actually alone.


	2. Chapter 2 Within the Yellow Tape

By the time dusk settled into nighttime, a damp fog misted the air, temperatures dropped to near freezing, and the curious onlookers had dispersed. Reporters continued feeding the news by local hookups and via satellite, but a respectful distance remained. Within the "work" zone, balloon lighting and light towers were erected to keep the visibility at efficient levels for the emergency workers and the victims still being brought to the surface.

Only relatives of the injured or deceased or those with special access were allowed to cross the barrier of yellow tape for instructions and to gain information.

Along with the anxious next-of-kin standing in the queue for the names of those who were treated and released, Sherlock shivered and patted his gloved hands. His back-and-forth texts with Mary throughout the afternoon only confirmed that John had not yet returned home under his own steam, and no one else had contacted Sherlock with any news. With John still unaccounted for, Sherlock was required to proceed through the first station.

"Looking for John _H-for-Hamish _Watson, a medical doctor." Sherlock told the woman adamantly. He was trying to avoid unnecessary confusion. There had been several Watsons: Jon and Johnny and Jack, the whereabouts of the first two had been confirmed, the last was only now being processed. Several times whilst waiting, Sherlock's ears perked to the name, only to realize it was common enough to be misleading. As far as he was concerned, there was only ONE John Watson. At last, when it was his turn at the makeshift information table, Sherlock stood tall, though somewhat stiff with the chill, and repeated with emphasis: "John 'H.' Watson."

"Watson, John…H….hmmmm. John R…, Jonathan W…No John H. on my list." Puffs of air condensed as she spoke. The sympathetic woman, seated on a portable chair, shook her head beneath her knit cap, but added encouragingly. "We only have partial lists at these tables. Try the next station. Your John _H._ Watson could be listed there."

Summoning rare patience, the consulting detective did as he was told and proceeded to the recommended information table_—This is for you, Mary, _and finally the last—_This is for you, BSW_, with similar disappointments.

"Sherlock!" DI Lestrade's voice preceded the shape that appeared from the shadows and hurried toward where Sherlock stood in yet another queue. "Any news of John?"

"_My_ question. You're supposed to have the answers!" The consulting detective frowned as he sized up the DI. The particularly challenging day left Lestrade looking more worn than usual under the harsh lighting on a cold night, but Sherlock felt relieved to see a friend who shared his concern. "I am doing my part…I am dutifully waiting in every bloody queue they recommend…If _half _of these_ extraordinarily_ patient people," Sherlock whispered and rotated his head to indicate everyone else around him, "were less distraught and were paying attention, they wouldn't need to be queuing up with me. It would go much faster for us all."

"How's that?" Only after he asked, did Greg Lestrade wish he had bitten his tongue instead. Somehow he couldn't refrain from soliciting explanations from his number-one consultant who was always too willing to demonstrate what everyone else missed.

"Just by observing, for example, I saw that man's sister—the man who's inquiring about her now (a little too late, I might add) with the attendant—had been treated and released. Mobiles are ringing in evidence boxes and nobody's picking up. That's a potential connection loss right there! Over there, that lady's daughter," he nodded toward his left, "was taken by ambulance, broken arm it seems, but the mother was so hysterical about what station she needed to check, she missed her daughter." Sherlock shook his head. "This explains why humankind is so wretchedly helpless." Sherlock raised his gloved palms up, "_but_ I am not interfering. I promised I wouldn't cause trouble."

"Well, that's good. Keep it that way." Grinning at the oddly compliant Sherlock, Greg Lestrade finally let out a sigh. "Sometimes these so-called helpless people need to hear what they already know from someone in authority. Bad or good, if the news comes from a reliable source they will have to accept it eventually. The longer it takes to get the news, the more frightened they become."

Something about Sherlock's eyes told Lestrade the consulting detective understood this part all too well. He also looked like he could use a cigarette. _Hell,_ they both could.

"Unfortunately, following counter-terrorism procedures and implementing search-and-rescue operations require precise synchronization." Lestrade shook his head ruefully. "Many were trapped deep within the tube. For safety reasons, it had to be slow and steady. So far it's yielded the best results. We lost some today, the count is just about fifteen so far, but it could have been far, far worse. Tough day all around. Oh, I did make a special request about _your_ Watson. Told everyone I _needed _to be contacted if John's name came up. A few Watson close calls, but not _our _man."

"Are there any John Doe's?"

Lestrade looked down the street sharing the same worry. "Until they move out all the equipment, they're not certain." He raised his weary eyes to meet those of the world's greatest consulting detective who had helped him solve so many cases. "But, those they've brought to the surface have been identified and verified." He looked away again. His salt-and-pepper hair gleamed in the bright light.

"Well, he didn't just disappear." The statement was a private thought spoken aloud.

Lestrade squinted at Sherlock, appraising the thin man known for his bundled nerves, the deductive genius intolerant of the rampant ineptitude that inhabited everyone's "funny little brains." Ordinarily the famous 'hat' detective would be unable to contain his wild ranting and rude bellowing about everything wrong with the investigation, but here he was, standing obediently, somewhat quiet, among ordinary folk, awaiting word of his friend and holding it in—all for John Watson.

"You're being a true friend." Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "I once told John I put up with you because you were a great man, and I thought one day—if we're very, very lucky—you might even be a good one. Seeing you here, like this…well, I'm not ashamed to admit I think you're achieved that."

An unexpected flush of warmth bloomed in high cheekbones. "Thanks to John." Another thought mumbled aloud, although the consulting detective acknowledged Lestrade's kind words with a slight bow.

Lestrade nodded solemnly. "Hey, do yourself a favor. Don't worry ahead of the facts, okay?" he advised. "Rely on your gut feelings. _Our_ John Watson's a resourceful guy. You'll find him. You always do." Reassuringly Lestrade gave Sherlock another pat on the back and strode off.

_Everyone,'cept me, thinks I will succeed._

"Dr. John H. Watson?" Sherlock said distinctly at yet another station for the names of those who were sent by ambulance for hospital evaluation. Quelling an internal tirade—_ This is for you, John H.—_ about the inefficiently slow progress, Sherlock closed his eyes. The relentless images of worried and distraught faces around him were nearing sensory overload, and Sherlock was not sure if he could appear normal for much longer.

"Not listed." The paramedic in a pea coat with a scarf wrapped up to his nose answered after making a thorough check.

With a drawn face, Sherlock queued into the last group, those of the bereaved who were systematically receiving confirmation about their loved ones and counseling by trained professionals on site

"John H. Watson, a medical doctor?" Fearing to see anything familiar, Sherlock glimpsed the last victims being zipped into body bags and loaded for the mortuary.

"Are you next of kin?" The lethargic official asked staring at his paperwork, apparently practiced at not meeting the faces of the grieving.

"Yes!" without hesitation. "He's my brother."

Flipping back and forth through the hand-written list of names, the official showed frustration. "Spell it."

"W-A-T-S-O-N, John H. The H is for Hamish. A medical doctor."

Again, the man flipped through the sheets. "Just a minute." He said without looking up and went over to a box of belongings that had been found with known victims but unmatched. It seemed interminable, but the man's body language informed Sherlock before he declared. "Oh here! Got something. You said Watson. First name, again?"

"John H. Watson." It came out in a hoarse choking sound.

"Okay. Got this. A wallet. Has an ID for a Medical Doctor. Came out of this jacket that was covering a victim." He held both up. Sherlock recognized them and dread clutched his heart. "But it's not been catalogued. The victim was somebody else. We can't release it until we have a match. It just may be this John H. Watson left already." The man walked back and took his seat.

"Left how? By walking away? Taken by ambulance, or sent to the morgue?"

"Sorry about your brother, Mr. …Watson." The man looked down at the list again shaking his head and finally met Sherlock's glance. "We're doing the best we can in this emergency. Sometimes a person gets through without proper processing, but we will usually get someone on it to track it all down…Sure something will turn up in a few days."

Grabbing the edges of the makeshift table until his knuckles turned white, Sherlock didn't know whether he was going to lift and throw the table over the man's head, bodily lift the man from his chair and throw him into the street, or do both—_this one is for __me._

A commotion, even cheers, distracted him from causing immediate mayhem. Raising his hand to shield the blinding glare from the light towers that lit the entrance, Sherlock watched through the light fog as the last few victims, already bagged with IVs, emerged from the Underground on stretchers, and were hurried into waiting ambulances. Fearfully, Sherlock examined each patient carried along seeing only women, no men, among the injured.

The motion of one paramedic running alongside the third and most critical patient caught Sherlock's notice. On closer look he could see the back of an athletic but compact man, jacketless, wearing a filthy, blood-splattered shirt that was nearly sleeveless. The man was holding the hand of the older woman in the race toward the opened doors. Paramedics took over, "thanks, Doc!" they said, slammed the doors, and drove off leaving him staring as it sped away. Alone in that moment, the doctor shivered in the cold and nearly staggered where he stood.

Overcome by joy, Sherlock gazed at the back of a familiar silhouette—the man he feared he'd never see alive and well. "John!"

John turned around when he heard his name, sensed someone rushing toward him and immediately recognized his friend's strong sinewy arms supporting him as he leaned with relief and rested his head against the welcoming warmth of the Belstaff coat.

Nearly lifting the fatigued man to the closest available seat, Sherlock pleaded for reassurances. "You're not hurt, John? For God's sake, tell me you're not hurt!" The Belstaff coat still warm from its previous owner was already covering the doctor's shoulders. The scarf, wrapped round his neck.

"I'm okay. Just bloody tired" John looked up and was rewarded by a caring face unmasked by deep emotion. Sherlock's usually coldly calculating aquamarine eyes appeared warmed by moisture, his firm lips quivered in a tenuous smile. "Hang on now, Sherlock! What are _you_ doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious? Finding you." Turning, the consulting detective gave a commanding roar that cut through the night. "We need paramedics here! We need blankets! This man's in shock!"

"No, I'm not, Sherlock," John weakly lifted his hand to wave off attention.

"You're too much in shock to know you're in shock." Standing behind his friend with his hands rapidly rubbing John's shoulders to generate heat, Sherlock repeated his appeal as paramedics, rescue crew members, and volunteers came running.

"Here you are! It's him!" A woman said as she laid an orange blanket over the Belstaff to keep in the warmth and offered him a water bottle to start hydration. "After you drink this, we'll get you something hot."

"Yes! We've been looking for you!" The paramedic took a knee and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around John's sleeveless bicep.

Behind the attending paramedics, Sherlock noticed a small crowd, comprised of emergency responders, gather around, gesturing and pointing at _his_ John H. Watson, Medical Doctor. "This passenger should be commended," someone remarked to another. "Not just any passenger. He's an _army _doctor," the other whispered back.

"BP good! Vitals steady. Tired, Doc?" The kneeling paramedic tapped John's knee before standing.

"A bit." Always a master of understatement, John answered in all modesty.

Background conversations continued in a litany of revelations:

"_It was like a war zone in the derailed carriage. Good thing he was an army doctor!"_

_"__When we finally got down there, he was already moving among the passengers assisting the injured, assuring the frightened; working triage. Saved us time and patient's lives by expediting who should be treated first."_

_"…__ripped off sleeves for tourniquets, used scarves, jackets, hats, to put pressure on the bleeding. Did what needed to be done…."_

_"__They say he asked passengers with working mobiles to use their flashlight apps for light so he could see what he was doing.…."_

_"__Hey, Doc." _A man called out from the crowd._ "I know how you stayed with that elderly lady because she was frightened. You could have left by then. Damn good man you are! A hero, I'd say…You saved lots of lives today."_

"Huh?" John looked up. "Yeah, Gladys…um…Beddows! Where was she taken? I'd like to follow up."

"Sure thing! We'll find out…"

" tis been a hard day, but you're okay. You're cleared to go home, Doc." Several paramedics took turns shaking his hand, the last leaned over, "Your name again, sir?"

"John H. Watson…Dr. John H. Watson."

"Thank you, Dr. John H. Watson." Nodding, John's grimace was a half smile that barely contained his emotions.

Sherlock had stepped back to listen to John's crowd of admirers, and closed his eyes in awe as he absorbed their profuse praise. Then he remembered—_one word_. _Mary!_ Punching her number, Sherlock heard her pick up immediately. "He's okay! He's fine!" He shouted, his hands trembling from the cold and excitement. "Your husband's a hero! Assisted everyone until the last victim went to hospital."

Again, Sherlock couldn't actually hear Mary, couldn't tell if she was crying, laughing or even talking. "I'll put him on. Hang on! Hang on, Mary!"

Holding the mobile over his head, Sherlock grabbed another orange blanket to flag his advance and part the crowd "Move, please. Very PREGNANT wife on the phone. Wants to speak to her husband!"

Weary though he was, John had the broadest smile of thanks as he grabbed the mobile." Mary! Mary!" he shouted and then his eyes spilled tears.

"Privacy!" With the versatile blanket now wrapped about him like a cape, Sherlock turned his back protectively toward John, and motioned with long arms at the crowd to back away. "Give the _hero_ his privacy! His baby is due any day!"

With nothing more to see, the admirers retreated back to their brilliantly lit stations to close up their reports and put an end to the long day.

Serenity he had never felt before enveloped Sherlock as he stood his ground like a wall to shield John. Reveling in the conversant modulations of John's voice—Sherlock didn't exactly eavesdrop—he heard instead the _music_ in the married couple's exchange of love, relief, gratitude, and elation.

And then he heard his name. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he turned. Standing in an orange blanket, the hem of the Belstaff touching the ground, John was handing back the mobile.

"Mary says you _must _give me a hug for her."

"Of course!" Pocketing his mobile, Sherlock threw back his orange cape and then hesitated. "Sure she would do it differently, but here goes. This is for Mary!" And he reached a wide circle around John's shoulders, also covered with a matching orange blanket, and enclosed them in a generous hug. With exaggerated tenderness, the tall man patted his friend's shoulders. "I hope this is good enough?"

"It'll do." John chuckled as they broke away. "From a distance we must look like a large orange with four legs."

Sherlock managed a quirky smile, but almost immediately, he launched into a second, somewhat awkward smaller hug. "This one is for Baby Shirl—err, Girl Watson."

"Oh! Nice touch. Baby Girl Watson!" John was moved by the thoughtful sentimentalism it implied.

As they parted again, Sherlock gave his friend a sidelong glance. And without another word, he extended his hand to shake. John's brow furrowed in wonder, but he didn't hesitate to clasp the outstretched hand.

Wordlessly, they pumped the handshake for several seconds before Sherlock quickly pulled his friend closer with his free arm, broke into a low relieved laugh, and whispered in the hero's ear. "_and_ this, this hug is from me!"

John blinked, then closed his eyes, momentarily succumbing to tremendous fatigue. Enfolded in his friend's strong embrace he felt safe and soothed by the sound of the sinus rhythms, imagining he could _hear_ the genuine affection emanating from the great beating heart of his best friend. He smiled to himself. _Maybe we're __both __in shock!_

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If anyone happened to be looking through the fog on that cold night in that brief moment, they might have imagined they were seeing a large orange with four legs.


	3. Chapter 3: Crossover ACTION IN MISSING

_This last chapter unifies and completes the storylines of both MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING, as it, in fact, picks up from the last chapter of MISSING IN ACTION. _

_As always, your reviews fuel my creativity. I cannot do this without you in mind, so please share what you think. _

**_ACTION In MISSING_**

**_Chapter 5_**

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"John?"

_"__John!"_

Why did the coaxing sound of his name seem both muffled and resonant? Like he was wearing his stethoscope for auscultation?

_Sherlock? _

Dreaming, John Watson blinked awake to the familiar voice.

_Where am I_?

Enfolded in the arms of the consulting detective, the weary doctor's head had slumped against the chest of his friend, his cheek brushing the soft fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

It took him a moment to remember how he got there…

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The last three injured passengers from the Underground derailment required the most critical care before they could be moved. Two women with suspected neck injuries were secured on boards by paramedic teams, but the last, Gladys Beddows, remained trapped.

With permission granted by the officials, John was allowed to keep his promise. It did not matter that he was just a surrogate for her lost son. He didn't care. It was the right thing to do, and he wanted to do it.

He stayed beside her on the floor, observing the rescue efforts from the ground—armies of booted feet quickly stepping past in what seemed like organized chaos—but he reserved his attentions mostly to the elderly lady whose trembling hand he patted soothingly.

"Are you still in pain?" John had checked to ensure that her medical team kept the dose balanced between managing her acute pain and keeping her responsive. Bruising was evident on her calf, but her ankle and foot were out of view under the collapsed seat.

"N' more. Can't feel my foot_.._. What if …?" she couldn't finish. Her eyes were swimming in tears, her lower lip quivering in fear. She was doing her best not to sob uncontrollably.

"Ahhhh, Gladys, I know it's unbelievably frightening right now," he whispered gently. "You have been amazing so far. Just a little more now, okay? First, we get you out of here, huh? Then the doctors will have a look at hospital. I have seen good medicine work miracles, so don't lose heart just yet, okay?"

In sympathy, real tears clouded his own eyes, which he wiped on a frayed sleeve. What an enigma he was. Whilst as a professional, Dr. Watson knew how to connect on an emotional level when his patients needed it, yet as John Watson, he struggled with expressing his personal feelings especially with those he loved the most. "So tell me a little more about yourself. We might as well get acquainted proper."

When her energy allowed, she chatted about her family, good memories about her son, but mostly about her youth and her budding career as a dancer. When she tired, she dozed restfully, without grimaces twitching her faded cheeks—a good sign that her medication was appropriate for her pain levels.

As he lay there quietly beside his sleeping patient, snippets of memory conjured vivid recollections from his own life: first as a surgeon saving lives. He missed this—his adrenaline spikes, sharpening his medical skills to perform heroic deeds under attack. Trained as an army doctor at St. Bart's and signed on with the _Fifth __Northumberland Fusiliers_, he had worked very hard to become a man of worth, a respected Captain. At the height of his shining army career, golden boy Dr. John Watson was defined by his accomplishments, by his sterling record, by the brotherhood of soldiers with whom he formed friendships quickly and to whom he had committed his LIFE in service.

It all ended in one defining moment that brought him low, figuratively and literally. In a pool of his own blood, he lay upon the ground, fire lancing through his shoulder, darkness shutting off the glaring sun.

After many months of rehabilitation and final invalidation, the army doctor discovered his greatest losses—his worth, his confidence, his friends, all gone with the career he called LIFE. Instead, a civilian now, he remained in the muted shadows as a "nobody," discarded, worthless and "unattached," Without a LIFE and no longer "the kind to make friends easily" _(as Mycroft had observed at their first meeting). _He was "feeling so alone."

Gladys woke again from a short nap. "Oh…yes. I enjoyed Irish step dancing..." her voice wavered with exhaustion, but she resumed the conversation exactly where it had left off, to John's amazement. "Branched into English Lancashire Clog dancing," she sighed, "but it was scandalous of me—a woman—to want to do tap—it was mostly for men!" Her pale blue eyes grew distant as she searched her memories. "My family misunderstood. The English style of tap…so light and elegant, is more classical!" Eyelids, like crepe paper, closed again as she managed a weak smile. "My family objected. But I mastered it anyway…and I was _damn_ good."

John chuckled, admiring her strong spirit and sharp mind. She would need both for recovery.

"Your turn." She nodded drowsily at John. "More about… _your_ dancer friend."

"Oh…right! Before the wedding, we tried to keep the dancing lessons secret to surprise my fiancée, who is now my wife, Mary. It was really exceptionally decent of him to give me ballroom lessons…" John trailed off. Gladys was asleep again.

In the privacy of his thoughts, John recalled with regret that, once again, he failed to speak his thanks aloud. Sherlock had shown great patience in teaching him, offering criticism tempered with praise and encouragement. Devoid of snide utterances or derogatory remarks, the consulting detective was a different man as a dance instructor. They practiced graceful steps, correct posture and hold, so John could lead his bride during their wedding day dance with confidence. More touching, Sherlock composed a unique work for the violin, which he played in their honor: the man had a heart as extraordinary as his mind, despite his own claims to the contrary!

At last, the emergency teams arrived to cut the pinned woman from the wreckage. John gently rubbed Gladys' hand, waking her enough to observe her alertness, and assuring her the work would be quick. It was! As soon she was freed, the paramedics immediately stabilized her, prepping her damaged limb and crushed hip for transport out and away for urgent medical care. The pace was hectic, yet their action cautious, and John followed resolutely, whenever possible keeping her hand clasped in his, as they found their way to the surface and an awaiting gurney.

Night had descended with a foggy chill, but bright lamps created a direct runway for passage of the last casualties to the ready ambulances.

During one brief pause, John removed the whistle from his neck, coiled it into a ball along with its string, and placed it in the woman's hand. "Do me a favor, Gladys dear." He folded her fist closed. "Hold this for me. I don't need it anymore, and I will probably lose it. You can give it back when I visit you in hospital. It actually doesn't even belong to me. So you will be helping me get it back to its rightful owner."

"God love you, so like my good son. God rest his soul." Her eyelids flitted closed as the IV painkillers kicked in once again. Her words were soft and dreamlike. "You will come back… to me?"

"Of course! Of course I will." John couldn't help but feel he was speaking on behalf of her son with his answer. "Okay! Ready, now? It's our turn—Go!"

A sudden uproar of cheers, hollers, and applause accompanied the paramedics, patient, and doctor as they raced toward the ambulance. Metronet teams, Met officials, volunteers, and first responders shouted with tremendous relief as the last victim, rescued from the derailment site, headed away.

Sprinting along with the gurney, John kept his grip firmly around the boney hand, although Gladys had fallen asleep before they reached the open doors of the ambulance. Once they loaded her in, there were no words of goodbye, except the paramedics shouting "thanks, Doc." He was left standing alone, the connection finally broken, the chill of the winter night immediately creeping into his weary limbs.

Then he heard his name in that unmistakable voice, spoken in a way he had never heard before.

"JOHN!"

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"John!" It was an echo from a recent memory.

"John, are you alright?"

"Hmmmm? Fine." He had been asleep on his feet. Just for a moment, the comfort and safety of his friend's hug worked like a sedative. John blinked again trying to get his bearings, aware now that he was draped in Sherlock's long coat, covered by another blanket, and held up by his tall friend.

"Sorry." He mumbled with some embarrassment, trying to break away.

"Don't be." The baritone voice gently broke with a soft cough, cloaking the emotional register, followed by a distinctive clearing of the throat, then Sherlock steadied John on his feet before letting him stand free.

"**_Normally NOT _**disposed to cat napping in people's arms…standing up… **_and _**in public. Ask Mary. " John massaged his head in bewilderment, disheveling his close-cropped hair. Wispy blond spikes stood on end. "But then again, as you're so fond of telling me, guess I'm NOT normal."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled with amusement, but he forced control over his emotions to remark impassively, "There is no need for apologies. You are worn out, and I am not. You need rest. I rarely do. You have at last surfaced…after the hours I spent here wondering where you were, but it is precisely why I am here,—for you. It's simple logic."

"Reason or no, napping in any man's arms is just as like to rekindle _idle gossip_ and _dinner conversation_ … especially when it comes to us. Here! Take this before we get into trouble. I'll keep your scarf." John quipped in half jest, removing Sherlock's coat from his own shoulders and trading it for the blanket Sherlock had been wearing instead. Doubling up both blankets, even with the scarf, might not be enough against the chill, but John expected they wouldn't be lingering much longer. _Maybe I could locate my jacket?_

As he looked at his Belstaff with uncertainty before slipping it on, the consulting detective leveled his voice in dead seriousness. "Does it matter? People will always believe what they want, even when the facts prove otherwise."

"What are the facts?" John raised his eyebrows, curious. Sherlock was not sporting with him.

Turning up his collar against the cold, Sherlock hesitated and swiftly dropped his gaze. "You are my one and only Dr. John H. Watson. No one and nothing will change that."

When he slowly lifted his eyes again, John's face was blushing, his smile elated, his deep blue eyes staring back at Sherlock with wonder.

Each had been rendered speechless.

Stunned, John focused on his friend's face. In the harsh emergency lights, John could see the familiar ice blue eyes, the set of the full lips, high cheekbones, fair skin made paler by raven curls that framed the thin face. From such a description, an NSY artist might translate a likeness in a recognizable rendering, but it would not have captured what John actual saw.

_Too often, Sherlock, you have chided me, __**'**_**You can see everything, John, but you fail to reason from what you see. Don't be hurt, you know that I am quite impersonal. No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But clearly you have missed some vital points…'**

Clearly John did not miss the vital points in Sherlock's countenance. For a third time since John's return from the Underground that evening, the consulting detective had ceased to be a reasoning machine and betrayed his capacity for human love. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which would customarily turn away with disdain from any expressions of commitment, fidelity, and abiding affection—and yes, love—("Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.") was revealing such depth of feeling.

At last, John saw the unmistakable proof of Sherlock's humanity which he had always believed existed, ever since Sherlock gave him the first inkling in the dawning of their partnership:

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**'****So! Didn't take me long, John, to decide... about YOU.'**

**Working surveillance that was incredibly tedious, at least to John, they were sitting in complete darkness at 2:30 a.m, sipping tepid coffee in paper cups, purchased hours before from the local bistro. The room they booked in the inn, 'coincidentally' overlooking the client's home, had two beds, and one in particular was calling John's name. However, Sherlock was on a CASE and didn't permit sleep. The moonless night would make any lights from the house immediately obvious****—****as long as they remained in the dark as well****—****and then the game would be on. Jittery with excitement in anticipation of final proof, substantiating his magnificent deduction that would seal the case, Sherlock, of course, had no trouble staying alert and paced the floor. John, on the other hand, was constantly nodding off in a nearby armchair.**

**Again the rhythmic breaths of sleep arose from John, prompting Sherlock's impatience. With his statement, that seemed to come from nowhere, the consulting detective deliberately threw the 'weary dog' an interesting bone to chew. **

**'****Huh? What?' John snorted and shook his head.**

**'****I said, it didn't take me long to decide.' **

**Their words floated in the darkness, mere sounds had to substitute for all lack of visual cues. **

**'****Decide? About me, did you say? How's that?'**

**'****You were there in the lab at St. Bart's, John, when I asked Mike Stamford to borrow his phone. He declined with an excuse…****_not the truth_****, mind you. You****—****a perfect stranger—offered ****your phone. Most people wouldn't have. Why did you give me your phone?'**

**'****Because you needed it?'**

**'****Do you always lend your phone to people?**

**'****Guess so. Dunno. If they need it. Well, depends on who they are.'**

**'****But in this case, you didn't know who I was.'**

**'****Right, true. But Mike knew you.'**

**'****But****_ you_**** didn't know me. Did you trust Mike's judgment? He didn't think I was worthy enough to have his phone.'**

**'****Well, Mike had suggested I meet you…we talked about sharing a flat—as you were looking and had just mentioned it to him that very day.'**

**'****So you lent me your phone on the possibility that I might be your flatmate?'**

**'****You're overthinking this, Sherlock.'**

**'****It's what I do.'**

**'****Primarily, I lent you the phone because you asked.' John yawned and stretched. 'Maybe, I lent you the phone because, on a subconscious level, I was making a gesture of goodwill…and perhaps, it was also a test, if we were going to be flatmates…to observe your reaction. You were polite and thankful. Y'see, first impressions are not always correct.'**

**'****A-Hah!'**

**'****Ahah, what?'**

**'****That's what I thought…you WERE observing me…without realizing it, but you were using your faculties to make a judgment call about a perfect stranger you had never before seen. Good for you, John. And you were a good judge of character, insightful**!'

**'****I just said I got the wrong impression… about you being polite.'**

**'****But beyond that, you instantly knew you could work with me.'**

**Blinking, John still couldn't see much, but it helped clear his thoughts. 'Don't think I knew...maybe felt, maybe hoped.'**

**'****What most people attribute to instinct and feelings is really their minds deducing facts.'**

**'****You think so?'**

**'****Obvious, isn't it? Your motives weren't strictly kindness. They were part practicality, too! When did you finally decide in my favor?'**

** '****Who says I've made that decision?'**

**'****No. really. When did you decide I passed your test?'**

**'****Again, you ASSUME you've passed my test.'**

**John sensed that if they could see each other, Sherlock would be giving him one of his stern looks. The consulting detective's words proved John had deduced correctly.**

**'****You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor, John, against which I must learn to guard myself.'**

**Chuckling heartily, John savored his amusement with additional sighs and snickers. There was an echo of laughter, softer, from Sherlock. **

**'****Okay,' the doctor finally relented. 'When did you pass my test…? Hmmm. Well, that's harder to say.'**

**'****Why?'**

**'****So much happened from the moment you asked if I had been in Afghanistan or Iraq...your deductions about me, your invitation to work the case…our ridiculous taxicab chase…you made me laugh so hard, and my laughing made you laugh…little things. Little things began to add up to bigger things. I thought you were extraordinary in what you do, but you were so arrogant and obnoxious to everyone. People kept warning me to stay away. The more they pushed, the more stubborn I became. The fact that you were aware of everyone else's bad opinions about you, and that you didn't care one wit—everyone was an idiot— intrigued me. More amazing, you kept asking me for my opinions, even though I was just as much an idiot as everyone else, but you seemed to care about them. Or at least listen to them.'**

**'****So you accumulated data to deduce you opinion… about me.'**

**'****In the normal way. It takes time. It couldn't be instant like you do it. I haven't always been correct when I make quick decisions, but I have learned that observations do help a person get to know another better and even come to care…'**

**'****Usually don't let my observations result in caring.'**

**'****Usually?'**

**'****Never mind. And what was your opinion?'**

**'****I realized you needed help. ****_My_**** help. You said it yourself, you couldn't work with Anderson. You asked me. But there was more. You needed someone who could guide your through the maze of contradictions of human nature…because you didn't get it. As brilliant as you were, you were an idiot, and friendless, just like me.'**

**'****Hmmm. So when you realized I was an idiot you decided in my favor?'**

**'****When I realized you were an idiot****_ because_**** you didn't have a friend, that's when I decided…and because, when I called you an idiot, you liked it and laughed. We laughed together. We were on even ground. You understood me. I was beginning to understand you. We could be friends.' **

**Sherlock inhaled, but said nothing.**

**'****Now, it's my turn. When did I pass your test?'**

**'****There were many tests, John. Some you didn't pass...'**

**'****Right, then. Okay…but the first time? When was that?**

**'****You passed with "Er, here. Use mine.'" **

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An extraordinary insight, like a shiver along his spine, rippled through John Watson as he recalled the strange conversation they had years ago. They had made great progress since then. Never dreaming his expectations about Sherlock could be surpassed, John needed to acknowledge this stunning truth as he stood opposite his best friend—reading him.

"Sherlock," John searched for the right words. "I…I can't thank you enough… for giving me tonight…something I've never had before—even when I returned from the service —a brother to welcome me home…"

"It's okay, John." Deeply touched, Sherlock was immensely pleased that John perceived Sherlock's own self-discovery from earlier that night, and rewarded his dear 'brother' with an affectionate smile. "Welcome home. Oh, yes! Hang on!"

With running strides, Sherlock crossed the distance toward an official seated at a table. Wildly gesturing arms and a steady finger pointing toward John looked peculiar from the distance. Sherlock seemed to be tap dancing his way through a conversation in a magnificent display of conviction and purpose. Several others were pulled into the discussion. Nods were exchanged, a box was retrieved, and Sherlock picked through its contents. When the official ticked off his clipboard, Sherlock came bounding back, with something in hand.

"Here. Your jacket. And wallet. Please, don't lose this again." His sideward glance could not hide his smile of extreme satisfaction. "Now, let's get you home…to Mary."

It took longer than usual for John to suppress his private smile and grateful heart behind a straight face. Once in the taxicab, pleasantries visited the light sleep that quickly overtook the weary doctor. _This is all so perfect. Hmmm. So perfect. Too perfect!_ A dark thought undercut his happiness with sudden worry and woke him with a start.

_This can't last! Happiness never does!_


	4. Chapter 4 Author's Note

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A.N. For a fanfiction "exploring what poor Mary was going through as she waited for word," check out TOO MUCH TO ASK. Keeping within the BBC backstory of Mary M. Watson, TOO MUCH TO ASK is a companion piece to MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING. Special thanks to englishtutor for suggesting it.

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